


An Ode to Sanitation

by necroesthe



Category: South Park
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Craig, Finger Sucking, M/M, Top Tweek Tweak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 05:58:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necroesthe/pseuds/necroesthe
Summary: There's a bug going around South Park, but Craig isn't going to let it stop him from getting fucked.





	An Ode to Sanitation

**Author's Note:**

> For [67riiii](https://twitter.com/67riiii) on twitter.  
> Thank you Max for beta'ing!

Craig feels it coming. He feels it in the sudden heaviness of his limbs, in his inability to breathe from his nose, and in the hot fuzz that fills his brain. He feels it in the way his throat aches when he swallows and in the stubborn chill that claws at his spine; dragging its nails down the rest of his body. 

He feels in the tightness of his chest. The faltering of attention, dead weight of his eyelids.

He moves through the day as if pushing past sand, guided by Tweek. He holds Craig’s hand tightly as they cross the street, allows Craig to rest his head against Tweek’s shoulder during the bus ride, and pulls him through the horde of students until they reach their class. 

He is surrounded by buzzing. Soft and small and big and coarse. It loops around his brain, hooking into the tissue, and slowly pulls the flesh out from his nose. Soft, like a slushy, and with bits floating around that scrape against the delicate walls of his nostrils. It burns and burns and slides down his lip.

His nose is pinched. Craig blearily opens his eyes to find Tweek standing in front of his desk, tissue in hand. He gnaws on his chapped lips, tongue flicking out occasionally to test the small cuts. Tweek is pale. He always is, and dark circles mar the soft skin under his green eyes. 

Craig clumsily pats Tweek’s hand. “You okay, honey?”

Tweek nods. His mouth moves, perfect lips moving over perfect teeth, and he furrows his eyebrows when Craig fails to respond; lulled by heavy eyelids. Tweek pulls him out of his seat and wraps his arm around Craig’s waist, half carrying and half dragging him. His fingers dig into Craig’s hip almost painfully; bone white knuckles smattered with cuts and bandages. 

“Craig,” Tweek whispers next to his ear. His warm breath ghosts over the shell. Involuntarily, Craig shivers. “Do you think you can hold the tissue yourself?”

“Yeah.” Craig rasps

The hallway is silent. The bathroom moreso. Tweek props him against the sink and holds his hand, fingers tracing over the back. Unlike Tweek, Craig’s hands are smooth. The most arduous thing he’s ever done was play outside, and none of his chores require handling bleach that would eat away at his flesh. 

Tweek’s nails are jagged nubs, and strings of skin stick up around the cuticles, waiting to be ripped off. He has a pianist’s fingers, and the most distal joint of his middle finger holds a callus; conceived from several assignments administered at school. Craig finds he likes Tweek’s hands; from the tip of his fingers to the bumpy scar tissue across his knuckles and the bone protruding from his wrist; the fine hairs littering his arm and the odd mole beside his elbow.

It’s almost as adorable as the mole below his left eye. 

“I think you should go home,” Tweek says, breaking the silence. His voice echoes in the empty bathroom. “You don’t look good, Craig. You really don’t look good.”

Craig rolls his eyes. “Flattered.”

“Oh, shut up, you know what I mean,” Tweek says. He looks down at his shoes, scruffed things that have persevered through boiled water and slushy snow. His lips are red. The cuts have reopened. “I was really worried.”

“You should’ve seen yourself, Craig. It was horrible. You were just—just sitting there and your nose started bleeding and you just kept sitting there and didn’t move and you didn’t  _ notice _ —” Tweek sucks in a sharp breath. “I was worried.”

Craig wants to brush his fingers across Tweek’s furrowed eyebrows and smooth away his worries. Instead, he raises their intertwined hands and presses his lips against Tweek’s knuckles; acknowledging the cuts and bandages and scars that linger. “I’m fine, honey.”

Tweek smiles back, soft and sweet. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

He breaks that promise two minutes later by vomiting in the sink. Tweek holds his hair and the tassels of his chullo back with a tight fist. Craig gags, nose still bleeding, and Tweek calls his mom.

His knuckles are white.

 

* * *

 

Craig’s house is empty when they arrive. His mom tells Tweek to take care of her son before heading back to work, and Tweek coaxes him inside. No dad. No Tricia. Tweek pushes him onto the couch and unties his shoes, nimble fingers quickly undoing the knot that had been created two days ago when they had raced to the bus stop. 

Craig’s shoes are a gift from Clyde—black vans with a bright white stripe. His pants don’t reach the lining, and Tweek likes to touch that small sliver of ankle that pokes out, either by dragging his fingers across the smooth expanse of skin or wrapping his hand around it, as if hoping his fingers would one day touch if he tried hard enough.

Craig is taller than Tweek and can completely wrap his hand around Tweek’s ankle. He tries to envision Tweek being taller than him, but can only see imagination—Tweek being blown away like the seeds of a dandelion puff. Craig would be trapped working at Tweek Bros. Coffeehouse waiting for Tweek’s return like a forlorn lover. Or a total loser.

A hand pushes at his chest, and Craig’s back hits the cushion. The ceiling enters his sight. It’s white and boring and could use some glow in the dark star stickers, but Craig realizes that if Tweek were taller, he’d be the one to dust the ceiling. Not Craig.

Craig could sit around and do nothing like he is right now. 

It sounds beautiful.

A slap tears him away from his thoughts. Craig rubs his stinging cheek. “What the fuck was that for?”

“You weren’t responding. I thought you were having a petit mal seizure.”

“You’d slap someone who’s having a seizure?”

“No. Just you,” Tweek says, and it makes Craig want to throw his shoe at his head. Instead, he hurls his chullo.

It hits the wall.

“Stay here,” Tweek says. I’m going to make you soup.”

“With what?”

“With whatever you have.”

Tweek rolls up his sleeves.

Craig’s mouth goes dry.

  
  


Craig thinks he’s going a little crazy. Tweek’s hand is splayed on his stomach, the hot fuzz in his head is growing lighter and lighter, and Tweek’s hand is splayed on his stomach. He’s going to fly away, maybe explode, Tweek’s hand is splayed on his stomach.

Tweek’s hand is splayed on his stomach.

Craig idly traces the rigid outline of the multicolored bandages smattered across, ghosts over the scabs, and runs the pads of his fingers over the small bumpy scars accumulated from years working at a coffee shop. There are nicks from kitchen knives and burns from hot water. Flayed skin from vigorous nail biting and scrapes from crashing onto the floor.

He loves Tweek’s hands.

In the stillness of the house, Craig can hear the broth simmering in the kitchen and the softness of Tweek’s breaths as he lays on the couch, resting his legs on Tweek’s lap. He ignores the ice cold fingers crawling up his calf in favor of starting to grind his thumbs against Tweek’s palm, moving from the heel up. 

The fingers on his leg pause. Craig repeats the motion, pressing just a bit harder. Satisfaction curls in his stomach when Tweek groans, throwing his head back against the edge of the couch. His eyes flutter shut.

Craig continues massaging. “You really like that, don’t you?”

Tweek moans. “Love it.”

Craig brings Tweek’s hand close and plants an open mouthed kiss against the center of his palm. Craig drags his lips to the side, leaving a cool trail of saliva, and licks the pad of Tweek’s thumb. 

Craig wraps his lips around the digit and sucks, hollowing his cheeks. His tongue swirls around lazily.

He bares himself with this intimacy — bone, flesh, and skin carefully chipped away to reveal the ugly raw vulnerability that makes him human. It gushes through his veins and laps at Tweek’s hand—shameless, messy, and hot.

Craig’s tongue swipes the webbing of Tweek’s thumb, and saliva slips through the small crack between his lips; dribbling down his chin and running down his neck. Tweek pulls his hand away with a small pop. Hands glacial, Tweek cups Craig’s face and drags his thumb across Craig’s mouth and cheek, smearing the saliva. It stings against the cold air, cooling quickly. 

Tweek probes his mouth. The pads of his fingers run across the bumps and grooves of his teeth before pinching Craig’s tongue with his index finger and thumb and pulling it out. It is uncomfortable but does not hurt.

He can see his reflection in Tweek’s eyes—messy and disgusting with flushed cheeks and droplets crawling down his neck and ears. 

Craig turns his head. 

Tweek lets out a small laugh, then lets go. Craig’s tongue is back in his mouth and there are hands unbuttoning his pants. Tweek’s head dips down, and Craig threads his fingers through Tweek’s hair.

Tweek licks the underside of his cock—  from base to tip — before wrapping his lips around and hollowing his cheeks. He bobs his head slowly, and with it, the hand gripping his cock.

Oh, god. Craig bites the knuckle of his index finger, stifling breathy moans that threaten to slip through.

He wants to roll his hip — hit the back of Tweek’s throat and make him gag — but Tweek pins him down with his other hand. Craig bucks his hips uselessly and groans when Tweek digs his fingers in, pressing harder.

It’s a secret. A promise. A hint of all that’s to come.

Craig likes to press at the bruises until stars burst before his eyes when he’s alone in his room, jerking to the memory of before. He likes to bite his lip and swallow his gasps and rut into his hand. The ceremony ends with his head pressed against his pillow, panting.

This, however, is veneration.

Abruptly, Tweek pulls away. Craig hisses at the sting of cold air but freezes when he hears the tell-tale sound of a cap opening and closing.

It’s lube. It’s honest to god  _ lube _ .

Craig doesn’t need to wait long. Tweek quickly shucks his pants down and presses the pad of his index finger to Craig’s hole.

Craig sucks in a breath.

One finger. Then two. A scissoring motion that gives Craig mixed feelings because he’s unable to tell whether he likes it or not, a curl that never fails to make him gasp, then slow lazy  _ deep  _ thrusts; Tweek’s knuckles dig into the cleft of his ass.

Craig whines, rolling his hip. He wants more; he  _ needs  _ more. 

Tweek gives him more. 

Craig hears the zipper, the popping of buttons, and another flick of the cap as Tweek smears lube over his cock. A soft sigh, and Craig imagines Tweek’s face: the lip between his teeth and the wrinkle between his brows. 

Beautiful.

Tweek hefts Craig’s legs over his shoulders and buries his fingers into the flesh of Craig’s thigh; pushing down. There isn’t much. Craig is fairly thin, but with his knees so close to his chest, he feels like he’s being folded in half, like origami. 

The couch dips in response to their new position.

“Look at me,” Tweek breathes, grabbing Craig’s jaw with one hand and jerking his head. “Look at me, right now.”

Craig looks. The green of Tweek’s eyes, the small scar on his left eyebrow, and the blonde hair of his brows. His dry chapped lips, the sharp incline of his nose, and the fine curled lashes that brush against his eyelids. Sharp cheekbones. Strong jawline.

Craig adores him.

He tangles his fingers in Tweek’s hair and drags him down, slamming their lips together. Their teeth clash almost painfully. Craig swipes the inside of Tweek’s mouth, tongue sliding across the grooves of Tweek’s teeth and the slick muscle that sits there.

“I love you,” Craig gasps as Tweek sinks into him; cock pushing past his walls slowly, inch by inch.  He drags his nails across Tweek’s scalp then lower, clawing his neck and back before digging them into Tweek’s shoulders. He wants the skin to break. Needs it to break. “I love you a lot.”

“I know you do.”

Tweek lurches forward, hips flush against Craig’s, and Craig can’t help the hiss that escapes him. His eyes burn, tears stinging. He buries his face in the crook of Tweek’s neck.

“Too much?” Tweek asks. He cards his fingers through Craig’s hair.

“No, I just—  I just. Some time. Give me a bit.” Craig chokes, breath coming in short staccato bursts. His heart beats wildly, struggling against the rigid confines of his ribs, and in the eerie silence of the house, his blood gushes madly, slamming the inner linings of his arteries.

The pain subsides as his body adjusts, but the burn persists, unyielding. It’s the good kind of burn, a stretching kind of burn similar to one from an intense warm up or cool down that signals improvement. Except it’s in his ass.

Craig tugs on Tweek’s hair. “Move.”

“Your wish is my command,” Tweek says breathlessly, drawing back and slamming into Craig. 

He swallows his groan. He’s being split apart and filled, fingers digging into his thighs and leaving hand-shaped bruises. White stars burst before his vision, pop pop pop, and he makes a strangled noise when Tweek hits that right spot.

Pleasure twists in his belly, and Craig bites down hard on his knuckles. He feels it in his head and fingers and toes: an empty sort of lightheadedness where he can’t think, doesn’t want to think, refuses to think.

Existence is in the moment, the fleeting sensations he only processes once it has passed. Temporal distance creates nostalgia: an ugly fondness borne from dissatisfaction with the present when the only reprieve is reminiscing on the past.

Craig wants to live in the past.

He yanks Tweek’s head down and clamps his teeth onto his neck; sucking hard. He mutilates the flesh. The bruise will be evident, and everyone will see the mottle of purple peeking out Tweek’s collar as he takes orders at work and walks with Craig to class. It’s petty and satisfying.

It’s the present.

“I’m close,” Tweek says, one hand wrapped around Craig’s cock; stroking in tandem with his thrusts. “Really close.”

“Good,” Craig mutters, and pulls Tweek in for a kiss. He catches Tweek’s tongue between his teeth and sucks. It’s sloppy and wet. Craig isn’t sure whose saliva is whose, but it doesn’t matter. 

They’re joined together, bound. Craig pulls Tweek’s hair and refuses to let go.

He feels Tweek draw back, and that’s okay because now Tweek is rubbing their cocks together and rutting against him and Craig is grinding back and — 

Semen splashes onto Craig’s abdomen. It does not contrast the blue of his jacket.

“Thanks,” Craig says as Tweek pulls his pants up, then puts away his own dick. The zipper cuts through the silence. “For not getting anything on the couch.”

_ Thanks for not coming in my ass. _

“No prob,” Tweek pecks his lips. He pops Craig’s buttons with skilled ease, and not for the first time, Craig wonders why he can’t display the same efficiency on his own shirt.

Probably because he likes Craig fixing them.

“The soup should be done now,” Tweek says. “After you eat and take your medicine I’ll draw you a bath. I’ll put this—” He holds up the offending jacket. “—in the laundry after you change.”

“But that’s my laundry,” Craig rasps. “Not yours.”

“Should’ve thought about that before you got sick.”

  
  
  


 

“No,” Tweek says a week later, swaddled in blankets, and surrounded by used tissues and empty tissue boxes. “Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” says Craig, sitting on Tweek’s bed.

“You don’t even know how to make a cappuccino!” 

“I don’t,” Craig confirms. “I’m just going to be taking orders. Your dad is in charge of that stuff.”

“My dad—” Tweek’s face twists. “You’re going to be working with my dad?”

“Yup.” Craig pops the ‘p’.

“You don’t even like coffee.”

“So?” Craig says, then continues, “Think of it this way: if I learn how to navigate your shop, we can work together. Then we can spend more time together.”

More importantly, the coffee house is a back up. Tweek was born and raised in it. He knows it better than the back of his hand. 

The coffeehouse is a constant in the craziness of South Park, persevering through zombies and visitors and Barbra Streisand. It will be there when college and career aspirations crash and burn, and serve as a place for residents to lick their wounds. They will spend the rest of their withered days there and find comfort in mutual self loathing.

Craig just needs to find his place in it.

“I guess,” Tweek says.

“Don’t worry, I won’t mess up too bad.” Craig says, and presses a soft kiss to Tweek’s knuckles, the bumps of bandages and grooves of old scars and the peeled skin surrounding his cuticles and nails bitten down to red nubs with dried blood flaking his fingertips. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Tweek says. “Don’t stay in the back room for too long. It’s weird in there.”

“I won’t.”

Craig loops the apron over his neck. Tweek’s fingers tie the knot with ease, and after a moment’s hesitation, turns it into bow. 

Craig wonders if he’s a gift. And, more importantly, if and how he’ll be torn apart.

He leans in for another kiss and is denied because Tweek refuses to reinfect him with whatever bug is floating around South Park. Craig settles for another “I love you,” 

Warm air greets him. Tweak Bros. smells exactly how you’d expect a coffee house to, and Richard appoints him to the cash register. Craig is immediately harangued by goths, who demand an even more bitter, blacker coffee.

“There really is no greater pleasure than making a warm cup of coffee,” Richard says. “It’s great that Tweek’s introducing you to the family business. There’s always work to be done around here, and we welcome another set of hands.”

Craig shrugs non-committedly. 

“In fact, I’ll start showing you the basics. Come here.” Richard puts a hand on Craig’s shoulder. “The basics are everything, Craig. Without them, we wouldn’t be here. So learn them well, son. Tweak Bros. will depend on the both of you.”

Richard explains the purpose of each machine alongside the function of every lever, button, and switch. He coaches Craig through making a cup —  from the beans, the hot water, and pouring — then dumps it down the sink and orders him to redo it again and again until Craig creates something satisfactory. 

Then he tells Craig to drink it. 

Richard’s eyes gleam with an unknown fervor. His lips shift over his teeth, and he does not blink; plagued by an uncanny stillness not found in Tweek’s spastic disposition. His voice is a constant, and Richard talks and talks and drones and drones, regardless if Craig is paying attention or not.

The hand is still on his shoulder.

Craig puts his lips to the cup and takes a delicate sip. He swishes it around his mouth, swallows, and licks his teeth. 

Then he takes another sip.


End file.
